True to her determination she set to work again and roared so that it was almost impossible to hear one's voice.

"What shall we do with her?" said her mother.

"May I take her to my room?" said Cousin Magdalen. "It is farther away from the other children, so she can't disturb them even if she screams all day."

Hoodie stopped again as suddenly as before.

"I won't go to zour room," she said. "I don't like zou now—not one bit."

Magdalen glanced at Mrs. Caryll.

"May I take my own way with her!" her glance seemed to say. Mrs. Caryll nodded her head, and notwithstanding Martin's whispered warning, "Oh, Miss King, you don't know what a work you'll have with her," Magdalen turned to Hoodie, and before the child in the least understood what she was about, she had picked her up in her strong young arms and was half way down the passage before Hoodie's surprise had given her breath to begin her roars again.

She was opening her mouth to do so, when her cousin stopped for a moment.

"Now, Hoodie," she said, "listen. It was kind of you to want to get me a quite fresh egg for my breakfast, but it isn't kind of you at all to make that disagreeable noise, and to kick and fight so because I want to take you to my room."

"I don't care," said Hoodie, "I don't like zou, and I will cry if I like. I don't like any people."

"I am very sorry to find you are so silly," said Cousin Magdalen. "If you were older and understood better you would not talk like that."

"I would if I liked," persisted Hoodie. "Big peoples can do whatever zey likes, and if I was big I could too."

"Big people can't do whatever they like," said Miss King, "and nice big people never like to do things that other people don't like too."

"Don't zey?" said Hoodie, meditatively. By this time they were safely shut into Miss King's room and Hoodie was plumped down into the middle of her cousin's bed—"Don't zey? Zen I don't want to be a nice big people. I want to be the kind that does whatever zey likes zerselves."

Miss King gave a slight sigh—half of amusement, half of despair. She was beginning to understand that Hoodie's reformation was indeed no easy matter.

"Very well, then. You had better go on screaming if you like it so much," she said, sitting down on the side of the bed and wondering to herself what would become of the world, if all the children in it were as tiresome to manage as Hoodie. In at the window the daylight was creeping timidly; all kinds of pretty colours were to be seen in the sky, and the birds were beginning their cheerful chatter. Still it was very early, and poor cousin Magdalen was sleepy. Was there anything that could make Hoodie go to sleep for an hour or two?

"The little birds in the nests are kind to each other. They don't wake each other up in the night and scream so that there is no peace. I wonder why children can't be good too," she said.

"I'm not sc'eaming," said Hoodie indignantly. "I've stoppened."

"I'm glad to hear it. But if I get into bed and lie down and try to go to sleep, perhaps you'll begin again, as you don't care for what other people like."

Hoodie was silent for a minute.

"Does you want to go to sleep?"

"Yes," said Magdalen. "I'm very tired."

"Zen I won't sc'eam."

Her cousin felt inclined to clap her hands, but wisely forbore.

"Thank you," she said quietly, as she lay down.

Hoodie wriggled.

"No, zou isn't to say zank zou," she said. "I don't like zou. I don't like any people, 'cos they stopped my getting zat nice fresh egg. I won't get zou eggs no more. I don't like zou."

"Very well," said her cousin.

Some minutes' quiet followed. Then Hoodie's voice again.

"When will zou tell us that story?" she inquired coolly.

"What story?"

"Zat story about oldwashion fairies, or some'sing like zat."

"Oh, I said I'd try to think of a story for you," said Miss King, sleepily. "Well, I won't forget."

"Zou must get it ready quick," said Hoodie. "Zou must tell it me, zou know, 'cos I've been so good about not sc'eaming."

"But not now. You don't want me to tell you stories now," said her cousin in alarm.

"No, zou may go to sleep now," replied Hoodie, condescendingly, adding after a moment's pause, "I can tell stories, lovely stories."

"Can you? well, you had better think of one, and have it all ready," said Magdalen in fresh alarm.

"Mine's is always zeady, but zou may go to sleep now," was the reply, to her great relief, the truth being that Hoodie herself was as sleepy as she could be, for in two minutes her soft even breathing told that for a while her fidgety little spirit was at rest.

Magdalen lay awake some time longer. In a half-dreamy way she was thinking over in her own mind the old fairy tales she had loved as a little girl—with them there mingled in her fancy the scenes and memories of her own childhood. She was glad to find Hoodie so eager for stories, it might be one way of winning the strange-tempered little creature's confidence, and she tried to call to mind some of the tales most likely to interest her. And somehow, "between sleeping and waking," there came back to her mind the shadow of a fanciful little story she had either read or heard or imagined long ago, and as she fell asleep she said to herself, "Yes, that will do. I will tell them the story of 'The Chintz Curtains.'"

When Magdalen awoke again that morning it was, as might have been expected, a good deal later than usual. Hoodie was still sleeping soundly. Magdalen got up and dressed quietly. She was nearly quite ready when Hoodie awoke. A little movement in the bed caught Miss King's notice: she turned round. There was Hoodie, staring at her with wide-open eyes.

"Well, Hoodie," she said, "how are you this morning?"

Hoodie did not reply, but continued staring, so her cousin went on fastening up her hair. In a minute or two there came a remark, or question rather.

"Has zou had a nice sleep?"



"Yes, thank you."

"Has zou thinkened of a story?"

"Yes," said Magdalen. "I almost think I have."

"I has too," said Hoodie, with a queer twinkle in her eyes.

"Have you," said her cousin, "that's very clever of you."

"Yes," replied the little girl, "zou didn't know Hoodie was so c'ever, did zou?"

"You'd better tell me the story first, and then I'll say what I think of it," said Magdalen.

"Now?" inquired Hoodie, "sall I tell it now? It isn't a long one."

"If you like," replied Magdalen, "you can tell it me while I finish doing my hair."

"Well," began Hoodie, solemnly, "just a long time ago—oh no, that's a mistake, it should be just 'onst—'"

"Or 'once,'" corrected her cousin, "'once' is a proper word, and 'onst' isn't."

"I don't care," said Hoodie, frowning. "I like to say 'onst.' If zou don't zink my words pretty you'll make one come, and if one comes I can't tell you stories."

"Very well," said Magdalen, remembering Maudie's explanation of the mysterious phrase, "very well. I won't interrupt you. You may say any words you like."

"Well then," began Hoodie again. "Onst there was a little girl. She was called—no, I won't tell zou what she was called—she had a papa and mamma and bruvvers and a sister, but zey didn't like her much."

She stopped.

"Dear me," said Magdalen, finding she was expected to say something, "that was very sad."

"Yes," said Hoodie, "vezy sad."

"Why didn't they like her?"

"'Cos zey thoughtened she was naughty. Zey was alvays saying she was naughty."

"Perhaps she was," said Magdalen.

"Nebber mind," said Hoodie, "I want to go on. One day a lady comed what wasn't hern godmozer, so she didn't like her, and she toldened her she was ugly. But zen—oh zen she founded out that she wasn't ugly but she was pretty, vezy, vezy pretty—oh, she was so nice, and the little girl liked her vezy much—wasn't zat a nice story?"

"Beautiful," said Miss King. "All except the part about her papa and mamma and sister and brothers not liking her. I don't like that part."

"Nebber mind," replied Hoodie again. "Nebber mind about zat part zen. Doesn't zou like about the lady? Can zou guess who it was?"

"Let me see," said Magdalen, solemnly. "I must think. A lady came that wasn't her godmother—dear me, who could it be?"

"It was zou; it was zou," cried Hoodie, jumping up in bed and rushing at her cousin. "And the little girl was Hoodie, 'cos I do like zou now. I do, I do, and I'll be vezy good all day, to please you."

"That's my dear little girl," said Cousin Magdalen, really gratified. "But won't you try to be good to please your papa and mamma too—and most of all, Hoodie dear, to please God."

She lowered her voice a little, and Hoodie looked at her gravely.

"I don't know," she said. "I couldn't try such a long time and zey alvays says I'm naughty. No, I'll just please zou; nobody else, and if zou aren't pleased, I'll sc'eam. I can sc'eam in a minute."

Magdalen grew alarmed.

"Please don't," she said. "I'll be very pleased if you don't. And when you see how nice it is to please me, perhaps you'll go on trying to please everybody."

Hoodie shook her head.

"Zey alvays says I'm naughty," she repeated.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and Martin put her head in.

"Is Miss Hoodie awake yet, ma'am?" she inquired. "And I do hope she's let you have some sleep?"

"Oh, yes indeed, thank you, Martin," said Miss King, cheerfully. "We have got on very well, haven't we, Hoodie? And I think you are going to have a very good little girl in the nursery to-day."

"I hope so, I'm sure, ma'am," said Martin, rather dolefully. Her tone did not sound as if her hopes were very high, and Hoodie's next remark did not make them higher.

"Yes," she said, "I is going to be good—vezy, vezy good, too good. But it isn't to please zou, Martin. It's all to please her," pointing to Miss King, "and not zou, one bit. 'Cos I like her; she didn't scold me about the cock—she zanked me, and she's going to tell me a story."

"Hoodie," said Magdalen gravely, "I don't call it beginning to be good to tell Martin you don't care to please her one bit."

"Can't please ev'ybody," said Hoodie, with a toss of her shaggy head; "takes such a long time."

"But speaking that way to Martin doesn't please me," persisted Magdalen.

"Very well zen, I won't," said Hoodie, with unusual amiability. "I'll give Martin a kiss if you like. Only you must have the story ready the minute moment Maudie's done her letsons—will zou?"

"Yes," said Magdalen, "it'll be quite ready."

So Hoodie went off triumphantly in Martin's arms, things looking so promising that by the time they reached the nursery, the two were the best of friends.

And, "what a nice little young lady you might be, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, encouragingly, "if you was always good."

* * * * *

Magdalen was ready for the children as she had promised. It was such a mild beautiful day, though only April, that she got leave to take them out-of-doors for the story-telling, and in a favourite corner, sunny yet sheltered, they settled their little camp-stools in a circle round her and prepared to listen.

"Only," said wise Maudie, "if Hec and Duke get very tired they may run about a little, mayn't they, Cousin Magdalen?"

"If even they get a little tired they may run about," said her godmother. "But I don't think they will. It is a sort of nonsense story, not clever enough to tire any of you."

"What's it called, please?" said Maudie.

"I'm not sure that it has a name," said Magdalen, "but if you'd rather it had one, we'll call it 'The Chintz Curtains.'"

"Please begin then, and say it in very little words for Hec and Duke to understand, won't you?"

Magdalen nodded her head, and began.

"Once," she said, "once there was a little girl."

"That's how my story began," said Hoodie, with the funny twinkle in her eyes again.

"Never mind, don't interrumpt," said Maudie.

"Well," Magdalen went on, "this little girl had no brothers or sisters, and though her father and mother were very kind to her she was sometimes rather lonely. And she often wished for other children to play with her. It happened one winter that she got ill—I am not sure what the illness was—measles, or something like that, it wasn't anything very, very bad, but still she was ill enough to be several days quite in bed, and several more partly in bed, and even after that a good many more before she could get up early to breakfast as usual, and do her lessons and run about in the garden, and play like well children. She didn't much mind being ill, not as much as you would, I don't think. For, you see, except just for the few days that she felt weak and giddy and really ill, staying in bed didn't seem to make very much difference to her, indeed in some ways it was rather nicer. She had lots of storybooks to read—several of her friends sent her presents of new ones—and certainly more dainty things to eat than when she was well—"

"Delly?" said Hec. "Duke and me had delly when we was ill."

"Yes," said Maudie, "last winter Hec and Duke had the independent fever, and they had to have jelly and beef-tea and things like that to make them strong again."

"Yes," said Magdalen, "that was why Lena—I forgot to tell you that that was the little girl's name—that was why they gave all those nice things to little Lena. But the worst of it was she didn't like them nearly as much as when she was well, and she often wished they would give her just common things, bread and butter and rice-pudding, you know, when she was ill, and keep all the very nice things for a treat when she was well and could enjoy them. She was getting well, of course; by the time it comes to thinking about what you have to eat, children generally are getting well; but she was rather slow about it, and even when she was up and about again as usual, she didn't feel or look a bit like usual. She was thin and white, and whatever she did tired her. Something queer seemed to have come over all her dolls and toys; they had all grown stupid in some tiresome way, and when she tried to sew, which she was generally rather clever at, all her fingers seemed to have turned into thumbs."

"How dedful," said Hoodie, stretching out her two chubby hands and gravely gazing at them. "All zumbs wouldn't look pretty at all. I hope mine won't never be like that if I get ill."

"My dear Hoodie," said Magdalen, as soon as she could speak for laughing. "I didn't mean it that way. Not really. I just meant that her fingers had got clumsy, you know, with her being weak and ill. It is just a way of speaking."

"Oh!" said Hoodie, rather mystified still, "I'm glad them wasn't zeally all zumbs."

"Only, Hoodie, I do wish"—began Maudie, but Magdalen went on before she had time to finish her sentence.

"And as the days went on and she didn't seem to be getting back to be like herself, her mother grew rather anxious about her.

"'We must do something about Lena,' she said to her father, 'she is not getting strong again. The doctor says she should have a change of air, but I don't see how to manage it. I cannot leave home while my mother is so ill,'—for Lena's grandmother lived with them and was rather an old and delicate lady—'and you, of course, cannot.'

"Lena's father was always very busy. It was seldom he could leave home, not very often, indeed, that he had time to see much of his little girl, even at home. But he was very fond of her, and anxious to do everything for her good. So he and her mother talked it well over together, and at last they thought of a good plan, and when it was all settled her mother told Lena about it.

"She called her to her one day when the little girl was sitting rather sadly trying to amuse herself with her dolls. But her head ached, and all her ideas seemed to have gone out of her mind. She could not think of any new plays for them, and she began to fancy their faces looked stupid.

"'I almost think I'm getting too big for dolls,' she was saying to herself, when she heard her mother's voice calling her. And she slowly got down from her chair and went up-stairs to the drawing-room, where her mother was sitting writing.

"'Are you very tired, dear?' she said kindly.

"'Yes, mamma, I think so,' said Lena, as if she didn't much care whether she was tired or not.

"'You seem often tired now, my poor little girl,' said her mother. 'I think it is that you have not got properly strong since you were ill. The doctor says a change of air would be the best thing for you, but just now neither your father nor I can leave home. Would you mind very much going away for a little without us?'

"'Would it be very far, mamma?' said Lena. She liked the idea of going away, she had not often left home, and she had a great fancy for travelling, but still you can understand to go quite away without either her father or mother seemed rather lonely."

"Hadn't she a nice nurse?" asked Maudie.

"No, she hadn't a nurse quite all for herself. She was the only child, you know, and her father and mother were not very rich people, so the maid who waited on her had other work to do too. Her mother went on to explain to her that it was not to any very far-away place they thought of her going. It was to a pretty little sheltered village near the sea, where in an old-fashioned farmhouse there lived a very kind old woman who had been her mother's nurse long before Lena was born. Lena had seen her two or three times and liked her very much, and Mrs. Denny, that was the old nurse's name, had often told her about her pretty home where she lived with her son, who had never married, and for many years had taken care of this farm for the gentleman it belonged to. Mrs. Denny had promised Lena that if she came to see her she should have as much new milk as she could drink, and plenty of quite fresh eggs, and all sorts of nice country things. She had also promised her a particular bedroom all to herself—and Lena had forgotten none of these things, so that when her mother told her that it was to Rockrose Farm they were thinking of sending her, Lena, in her quiet way, felt quite pleased. She was not a little girl that made a fuss about things—she had lived too much alone to be anything but quiet—and just now she felt too tired to seem very eager. But her mother was pleased to see the bright look that came into her eyes, and to hear the cheerful sound in her voice when she replied, 'Oh, if it is to Mrs. Denny's, mamma, I should like to go very much. And I wonder if she will let me sleep in the room where the bed has such beautiful chintz curtains, all covered with pictures, mamma?'

"Her mother smiled.

"'I daresay she will, dear,' she said. 'I'm just writing to nurse now, and if you like I'll ask her to be sure to let you have the bedroom—with——'"



CHAPTER VI.

"THE CHINTZ CURTAINS."

"O lovely land of fairies, You are so bright and fair."

"The chintz curtains."

Cousin Magdalen stopped for a minute.

"Are you getting tired, dears, any of you?" she said.

All the four heads were shaken at once.

"Oh dear no," said Maudie.

"In course not," said Hoodie.

And "It's a vezy pretty story," said Hec; while Duke faintly echoed, "Vezy pretty."

So Magdalen, thus encouraged, went on.

"You begin to understand now why I said you might call the story 'the chintz curtains,'" she said. "We're now got like to the real beginning. At least I needn't explain any more about Lena—you must just fancy her arriving one afternoon at Rockrose Farm. It was a nice bright afternoon, though the winter was scarcely over, and little Lena already began to feel stronger and better when she ran out into the garden at one side of the house for a breath of fresh air after the long drive from the railway. Her father had brought her to the station, and there Mrs. Denny had met her, so that he might go straight back by the next train without losing any time.

"'Oh, how nice it is,' she said to Mrs. Denny, as she stood in the middle of the little grass-plot beside the old sun-dial, and felt the sweet fresh air blowing softly over her face. 'How pretty the garden must be in summer.'

"'Yes, my dear,' said Mrs. Denny. 'The flowers are very sweet. It seems to me there never were such sweet ones. And do you hear that sort of soft roar, Miss Lena? Do you know what that is?"

"Lena stood quite still to listen, and a pleased look came over her face.

"'Yes,' she said, 'I believe it is the sea. It is like far-away organs, isn't it?'

"'And sometimes in stormy weather it is like great cannons booming,' said Mrs. Denny.

"But just then it was difficult to think of storms or cannons, or anything so unpeaceful. Nothing could seem more perfectly calm and at rest than that dear old garden the first time Lena ever saw it. I don't think anything (any place perhaps I should say) can be more delicious than a little nest of a place like Rockrose, sheltered from the high winds by beautiful old trees, and yet open enough for the sea breezes to creep and flutter about it, and sometimes even to give what Lena called 'a salty taste' to the air, if you stood with your mouth open and got a good drink of it. But I mustn't go on talking so much about the outside of the house, or I never shall get to the inside, shall I?

"Well, after Lena had admired the garden, and promised herself many nice runs in it, Mrs. Denny took her into the house again. They passed through the kitchen, which had a little parlour out of it, where already tea was set out—it was such a delicious old kitchen, the paved floor as white and clean as constant scrubbing could make it, and the old cupboards and settles of dark wood shining like mirrors—they passed through the kitchen and across a little stone hall with whitewashed walls, out of which opened the best parlour, only used on very grand occasions, and up two flights of stone steps ending in a wide short passage running right across the house. At one end of this passage Mrs. Denny opened a door, which led into a sort of little ante-room, and here another rather low door being opened, Lena followed Mrs. Denny into the bedroom which was to be hers. It was not a very little room—there were two windows, one at each side—one of them looked out on to the garden, the other had a lovely view far away over the downs, to where one knew the sea was, though one could not see it. But fond as Lena was of pretty views, she did not run to the window to look out. She stood still for a moment and then ran forward eagerly to the end of the room, where the bed was placed, crying out with delight,

"'Oh, that's the bed—that's the very bed you told me about, dear Mrs. Denny—the bed I did so want to sleep in. Thank you so much for remembering about it. Oh, how beautiful it is—I shouldn't mind being ill if I was in that bed.'

"It really was a rather wonderful bed. It was a regular four-poster, if you know what that is—a bed with wooden posts at each corner, and curtains running all round, so that once you were inside it, you could if you liked draw them so close that it was like being in a tent."

"I know," said Maudie, "I've seen beds like that. But I don't think Hoodie and the boys have—let me see; oh yes, I can tell them what it's like. It's like the bed in our best doll-house—the one with pink curtains trimmed with white. You know?"

"Yes," said Hoodie, "the one where Miss Victoria has been so ill in, since she's got too ugly to sit in the drawing-room. I know."

"But it's such a weeny bed," said Hec, "was zour little girl no bigger than zat little dolly, Cousin Magdalen?"

"Of course," said Maudie, hastily. "How stupid you are, Hec."

"Maudie," said her godmother, and Maudie got very red. "Maudie meant it was the same shape as that, but much bigger, Hec dear. Just the same as the piano in the study is the same shape as the one in the doll-house, only much bigger."

"Oh zes," said Hec.

"A great deal bigger than any of the beds people have now," continued Magdalen. "It was really big enough to have held six little Lenas instead of one. But it was the curtains that made it so particularly wonderful. They were very old, but the colours were still quite bright, they had been washed so carefully. And the pattern was something I really could not describe if I tried—it was the most delicious muddle of flowers, and trailing leaves and birds, and here and there a sort of little basket-work pattern that looked like a summer-house or the entrance to a grotto.

"Lena stood feasting her eyes upon these marvellous curtains.

"'I never did see anything so nice,' she said. 'Can I see the pictures when I'm in the bed, Mrs. Denny?'

"'Oh yes, my dear, they're double—the same inside as out,' said Mrs. Denny, turning them as she spoke.

"'How nice!' said Lena; 'well, if I'm late for breakfast, Mrs. Denny, you'll know that it'll be with looking at the curtains.'

"'I'm not afraid but that you'll sleep well in this bed, Miss Lena,' said the old nurse. 'There's something very lucky about it. Many a one has told me they never had such sweet sleep or such pretty dreams as in our old bed. It's maybe that the room is a very pleasant one, never either too hot or too cold, and there's a beautiful scent of lavender, Miss Lena, all through the bed, as you'll find.'

"Lena poked her little nose into the pillows on the spot.

"'Oh yes,' she said, 'it's beautiful.'

"'But you must be, or any way you should be, hungry, my dear,' said nurse. 'And tea's all ready. Come away down-stairs, and then you must go to bed early, you know. I must take great care of you, so that you'll look quite a different little girl when you go home again.'

"Lena did justice to the tea, I assure you. She thought she had never enjoyed anything so much before as the nice things Mrs. Denny had got ready for her. And after tea there was her little box to unpack, and her things to arrange neatly in the old-fashioned bureau and on the shelves of the large light closet, opening out of the room. And by the time all this was done Lena began to feel both sleepy and tired, and was not at all sorry when Mrs. Denny told her that she thought it was quite time for her to go to bed.

"And oh how very comfortable she felt when she was fairly settled in the dear old bed! It was so snug—just soft enough, but not too soft—not the kind of suffocatingly soft feather-bed in which you get down into a hole and never get out of it all night. It was springy as well as soft, and though the linen was not perhaps so fine as what Lena was accustomed to at home, it was real homespun for all that—and through everything there was the delicious wild thymy sort of scent of lavender which Mrs. Denny had promised her. Lena went to sleep really burrowing her nose, which was rather a snub one to begin with unfortunately, into the pillow, and the last words she thought to herself were, 'I could really fancy myself in a sort of fairy-land. And oh how nice it will be in the morning to lie awake and look at those lovely curtains.'

"There was not so very much lying awake however the first morning as she had expected. It was so late when she awoke that the sun was quite a good way up in the sky, and Mrs. Denny was standing by the bed smiling at her little visitor, and wondering if she would have to make fresh bread and milk for her, as the bowlful that was ready would be quite spoilt with waiting so long. Up jumped Lena.

"'Oh, dear Mrs. Denny,' she said, 'I have had such a beautiful, lovely sleep. And you don't know what funny dreams I had. I dreamt that there were fairies hidden in all the little crinks of the curtains, and I heard them talking about me and telling each other that it was the first time I had slept there, and they wondered if I was a good little girl. And then I thought I heard one say "if she is good we can please her well." Wasn't it funny, Mrs. Denny?'

"'Very funny,' said Mrs. Denny, smiling. 'But you know, Miss Lena, I told you you'd have beautiful sleeps and dreams here, didn't I?'

"'Yes,' said Lena, 'and I'm so hungry, you don't know how hungry I am.'

"So she jumped up and washed and dressed and said her prayers, and came down to the kitchen as fresh and bright as a little girl could look. And Farmer Denny declared, if the roses in the gardens had been in bloom, he could have thought she had been stealing some for her cheeks—for already there was certainly more colour in them than when she had arrived. So the time passed very happily, and Lena did not feel the least dull either by day or by night.

"It had not been the time of the full moon when she first came, but a few days later it happened to be so, and as the weather was beautifully fine just then there were almost no clouds in the sky, and the moon had it all her own pretty way. One night Lena woke up suddenly—it seemed to her that she had been asleep a long, long time, and she didn't feel the least heavy or confused, but quite fresh and brisk as if she had had all the sleep she needed. And the shining moonlight came pouring in at the windows in a sort of wide band of light falling right across the bed and showing out most beautifully the colours and patterns on the old-fashioned curtains. They looked even brighter than by daylight, and as Lena lay and looked at them, she saw wonderful new pictures that she had never noticed before—the sort of pathway between the green branches and foliage that seemed to lead up to one of the little bowers or grottos grew more distinct, and as Lena tried to trace it out with her eyes, she suddenly saw a little figure moving along the path she was looking at. She rubbed her eyes and looked again—the figure had disappeared, but instead she saw clearly in the moonlight two butterflies flitting about the same path, darting first backwards, then forwards, as if inviting her to follow them.

"'If only I were a fly and could walk straight up a wall,' thought Lena, 'I'd really step up that curtain and see if I couldn't make my way into that grotto,' and then she laughed to herself at the fancy—'as if any one could walk into a picture!' she said.

"And then it seemed to her that the butterflies melted into the leaves—and there was no movement at all on the curtains.

"'It must have been the trembling of the moonlight that made me fancy it,' Lena said to herself. And the next morning when she awoke she stood up on tiptoe to examine the particular spot where she had seen these curious things. It looked just the same as the other parts of the curtains—only half hidden among the bushy leaves near the rustic doorway that Lena called the arbour, she found out a queer brown little face that she had not seen before. It seemed to her to peep out at her suddenly, and she fancied that it was the face of the figure she had watched moving along the path in the moonlight.

"'How funny that I never noticed it before,' she said, for when she looked at the same place on the pattern in other parts of the curtains she noticed the same queer little brown face, just like a monkey peeping from among the branches.

"She was so surprised that she thought she would ask Mrs. Denny if she had ever noticed 'the monkeys,' but somehow it went quite out of her head. It was not till the next night that she remembered anything more about them.

"For the next night, strange to say, she wakened again in the same sudden way. And again the moonlight was shining right on the curtains, and this time Lena felt more sure than the night before, that something was moving about among the leaves and flowers and branches that seemed to stand out so brightly.

"'Oh dear,' she thought to herself, 'I do wish I could creep up quite quietly and see if it is one of those monkeys that has got loose. Oh please, Mr. Monkey, if you are a fairy, do come down and fetch me,' she added, laughing.

"But her laughter stopped suddenly. Almost as she said the words the most curious sound reached her ears—at first it seemed like the buzzing of lots and lots of flies, bluebottles, midges, bees, cockchafers—every sort of creature of the kind, so that Lena started up in a fright. But no—no flies of any sort were to be seen, but nearer and nearer, louder and louder came the sound, till at last it grew into a sort of chant, as if a great number of little feet were stepping along together, and a great number of little buzzing voices singing in time to them. And glancing up at the curtains Lena plainly saw a whole quantity of tiny brown figures stepping—you couldn't call it sliding, they moved too regularly—downwards in the direction of her face. And if she had looked closer, she would have seen that every place in the pattern where the wee brown faces peeped out was empty! The monkeys had come to fetch her! Where to?

"That I must try to tell you—but as to how she got there, that is a different matter. She never knew it herself, so how could any one else know it? All I can tell you is this—she found herself standing in front of a little house—a pretty little house, something like the carved Swiss cottages that your mamma has in the library—there was a garden all round it, thick trees and bushes at the sides, and as Lena suddenly, as it were, seemed to awake to find herself there, she heard at the same moment a sort of scuttling all about her, just as if a lot of hares or rabbits had taken flight. And when she quickly turned round to look, she saw disappearing among the shrubs ever so many—quantities of pairs of little brown legs and feet—the bodies and heads belonging to them being already hidden in the green.

"'It must be the monkeys,' thought Lena, and as this came into her mind it struck her too that this place where she found herself was the very place where she had wished to be. Till this moment she had somehow forgotten about it, but now she looked about her with great interest—yes—this cottage must be the very place she had called an arbour, for the fence in front of it was of rustic work like dried branches twisted together, and there at the side was one of the trees with the thick leaves where the monkey's face had peeped out—and at the other side were the plants with the big bobbing red flowers, and the other ones with the hanging yellow lilies—all the things she had noticed so often. Lena had really got her wish. She was in the chintz curtains. Only there were no birds, no butterflies, nothing moving at all—no monkeys' faces peeping at her from among the leaves. Everything was perfectly still.

"'What shall I do?' thought Lena. 'Shall I go into the house and look about me? I wonder if it would be rude.'

"It didn't seem so, for the door was left open—wide open, as if on purpose; so, after knocking once or twice and no one coming, Lena walked in. Such a pretty, but such a queer little house it was. It was more like a nest than a house. There was a little kitchen with cupboards all round, with open lattice-work doors through which you could see what was in them. They were filled with all sorts of queer provisions, nuts, acorns, apples of different kinds, and some fruits that Lena had never seen before. Then in the parlour the carpet was the prettiest you could imagine. Lena could not think what it was till she stooped down and felt it with her hands, and then she found it was moss, real live growing moss, so bright and green, and so soft and springy. And the sofa and chairs were all made of growing plants, twisted and trained so that the roots made the seat and the branches the back. Each was different. Lena sat down in one or two, and could not tell which was the most comfortable, they were all so nice, and so pretty. For each was ornamented with a different flower that seemed to grow in a wreath on purpose round the back and down the arms. There was no fireplace in the room, but there were some nice furry-looking rugs lying about, and when Lena looked at them closely she saw they were made of moss too—moss of a different kind, browner than the other, plaited together in some wonderful way with the soft flowery tufts kept outside. Lena lay down on the sofa and covered herself up with one of these rugs.

"'How comfortable it is! What an awfully nice little house this is!' she said to herself. 'But how I do wish some one would come to speak to me. It feels rather like Silverhair in the Three Bears. Mr. Monkey, if this is your house, please come and speak to me.'

"No sooner had she said this than there stood before her a wee brown figure—brown all over, face, hands, feet and all—only his eyes, which sparkled brightly like beads, were black. He was dressed in a short scarlet jacket, and on his head was a scarlet cap with a long, very long tassel. He took off the cap and bowed low—very low at Lena's feet—the top of his head when he stood upright reached about to her knees, and he bowed so low that his nose nearly touched her toes. Lena felt rather uncomfortable—she was not used to such very great respect, and she felt a little startled to think that she had called out to the little man, as 'Mr. Monkey.' No doubt he was rather like a monkey, but still—



"She stood to think of something nice and civil to say, but she could not, try as she might, think of anything better than 'Thank you, sir.'

"It did quite well—the little man seemed quite pleased, for he bowed again as low as before, and in a clear silvery voice like a little bell he spoke to Lena.

"'What are your biddings, little lady?'"

"'Oh,' said Lena, 'I do so want to see all this funny place. It was very kind of you to bring me up here, but I would like to see it all. May I walk all about your garden, Mr. Mon—oh, I beg your pardon,' she added in a hurry.

"'Never mind,' said the little man. 'One name is as good as another. My brothers and I have been watching you, and we wish you well. If you will come with me I will show you all I can.'

"'Oh, thank you,' said Lena, jumping up in a moment.

"The little man walked out of his house, and standing in front of it he gave a long shrill whistle. Immediately from every direction whole quantities of other little brown men appeared—they seemed to tumble out of every branch of the trees, to peep up out of the ground almost at Lena's feet—till at last she felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

"'Fetch the carpet,' said the first little man, who seemed a sort of commander, and before Lena had time to see where it came from a beautifully bright blue sheet was stretched out before her, held all round by the dozens and dozens of little brown men, as if they were going to shake it.

"'Step on to it, little lady,' said her friend.

"Lena did so, and no sooner had her feet touched it than she felt it rise, rise up into the air, up up, till she wondered where she was going to. Then suddenly, as suddenly as it had begun to move, it stopped.

"'Where are we?' she said, just then noticing for the first time that her own particular little brown man was sitting at her feet.

"'At the top,' said the little man; 'it would have taken you a long time to climb up here, and we did not want to tire you. Now you shall see our gardens.'

"He jumped off the carpet, and Lena followed him. All the other little men had disappeared, but she hardly noticed it, she was so delighted with what she saw. Before her were beautiful flower paths—paths edged with tall growing flowers of every colour indeed, for they never stayed the same for half a moment, but kept changing like rainbows—melting from one shade into another in the loveliest way, like the coloured lights at the pantomime.

"'Oh, how lovely!' said Lena. 'May I gather some, please?'

"The little man shook his head.

"'You cannot,' he said, walking on before her.

"After a while he turned down another path.

"'These are our birds,' he said; and Lena, glancing more closely at what she had thought were still flowers, saw that they were trees with numberless branches, on each of which sat or perched a bird. They were a contrast to the many-coloured flowers, for each bird was of one colour only, and all the birds on each tree were the same. There was a tree perfectly covered with pure white ones, another with all red, a third all blue, and so on. And the birds swayed gently backwards and forwards on the branches, in time; though there was no sound, it seemed to Lena like hearing beautiful music. And somehow she did not feel inclined to speak or to ask any questions. She just quietly followed the little man, feeling happier and more pleased than she had ever felt in her life. And soon there came another change. Looking up, Lena saw that all the birds and flowers were left behind, and she was walking through a sort of thicket of leafless bushes. She wondered why they were so bare, when everything else in the brownies' country was so rich and bright.

"'These are our orchards,' said her guide. 'But we keep the fruit packed up till it is wanted. It keeps it fresher. See now!' As he spoke he touched a bush.

"'Grow,' he said, and in an instant there came a sort of flutter over the tree, and then at once there sprouted out all over the branches the most tempting-looking clusters of fruit. They were something like beautiful purple grapes, but richer and more luscious-looking than any grapes Lena had ever seen. And while she was admiring them the little man touched another, and instantly oranges, golden and gleaming like no oranges she had ever seen before, glistened out all over the branches. And the little man stepped on in front, touching the trees as he went, till the whole path was a perfect glow of fruits of every colour and shape. So beautiful were they to look at, that Lena somehow felt no wish to eat them.

"On went the brownie, touching as he went, till suddenly the path came to an end, and Lena saw in front of her a high wall of bright green grass, with steps cut in it.

"'Up here,' said her little friend, 'are our fish-ponds. Would you like to see them?'

"Lena nodded her head. She was getting quite used to wonderful things, but the more she saw the more she wanted to see. She followed the little man up the steps, and when she got to the top she stood silent with surprise and delight. Of all the pretty wonders he had shown her, what she now saw was the prettiest. Six tiny lakes lay before her, and in each a fountain rose sparkling and dancing. And the fish that were in each lake rose up with the waters of the fountain and glided down them again as if almost they had wings. In each pond the fish were of different colours. There were, let me see, six ponds, did I not say? Yes—well in the first the fish were gold, in the second silver, in the third bronze; and in the three others even prettier, for in them the fish were ruby, emerald, and topaz. I mean they were of those colours, and in the water they gleamed as if they were made of the precious stones themselves. Lena gazed at them in perfect delight, and held out her hands so that the spray from the fountains fell on them, half hoping that by chance some of the fish might drop into her fingers by mistake.

"The little man looked at her and smiled, but shook his head.

"'No,' he said, as if he knew what she was thinking, 'no, you cannot catch them, just as you could not have gathered the flowers.'

"Lena looked disappointed.

"'I would so like to take some of them home,' she said, gently.

"'It cannot be, child,' said the little man. 'They would have neither life nor colour out of their own waters. There are many, many more things to show you, but I fear the time is over. I must take you home before the moon sets.'

"'But mayn't I come again?' said Lena. She had not time to hear the little man's answer, for again there came the quick rushing sound of the quantities and quantities of little feet, and again a sort of cloudy feeling came over Lena. She tried to speak again to the brownie, but her voice seemed to have no sound, and all she heard was his shrill whistle. It grew shriller and shriller till at last it got to sound not a whistle at all, but more like a cock's crow. And just then Lena opened her eyes, which she did not know were closed, and what do you think she saw? The morning sun peeping in at the lattice-window of her bedroom, and lighting up in its turn, as the moon had done a few hours before, the queer quaint patterns on the old chintz curtains. And down below in the yard Farmer Denny's young cock was busy telling all its companions, and little Lena as well, if she chose to listen, that it was time to be up and about."

Magdalen stopped.

"Is that all?" said Maudie.

Hoodie said nothing, but stared up for her answer.

"I don't know," said their cousin.

"You don't know?" said Maudie. "Cousin Magdalen, you're joking."

"No, indeed I'm not. I really don't know. I daresay there's lots more if I had time to tell it you. The little man told her there were lots and lots more things to show her."

"Did her ever go back again?" asked Hoodie gravely.

"I hope so—I think so," said Magdalen. "But I don't think she ever went back quite the same way."

Hoodie stared harder. Maudie looked up with a puzzled face.

"Cousin Magdalen," she said, "I believe after all you've been taking us in. There is something in the story that means something else. How do you mean that Lena went back again to the brownies' country?"

"I mean," said Magdalen, "that it was the country of fancy-land—a country we may all go to, if——"

"If what, please?"

"If we keep good and kind and sweet and pretty feelings in our hearts," said Magdalen, slowly, and a little gravely. "But if we let ugly things in—crossness, idleness, and selfishness, and ugly creatures like that—the pretty fairies will never come near us to fetch us away to see their treasures. The brownies would not let untidy or ill-tempered children into their neat little nests of houses. And even if such children did get into fairy-land or fancy-land—whichever you like to call it, where there are such numberless beautiful and strange things—it would not be fairy-land to them, because their poor little eyes would be blind, and their poor little ears deaf."

"I think I understand," said Maudie, "and some day perhaps, Cousin Magdalen, you'll tell us some more about Lena."

"Perhaps," said Magdalen, smiling.

But Hoodie said nothing, only stared harder up in her cousin's face with her big blue eyes.

And Hec and Duke, who had been amusing themselves since the story was over and the talking had begun, by sticking daisies on to a thorn, trotted up to Cousin Magdalen to kiss her and say, "Zank zou for the pitty story."



CHAPTER VII.

TWO TRUES.

"The little stars are the lambs, I guess, The fair moon is the shepherdess."

NURSERY SONG.

A few mornings after the story telling in the garden, as Miss King was passing along the passage on her way down to breakfast, she overheard tumultuous sounds from the direction of the nursery. She stopped to listen. Various little voices were to be distinguished raised much higher than their wont, and among them, now and then, Martin's rather anxious tones as if entreating the children to listen to her advice.

"I don't care," were among the first words Cousin Magdalen made out clearly, "there isn't two trues, and what I'm telling is real true true, as true as true."

The speaker was Hoodie. Then came the answer from Maudie.

"Hoodie, how can you?" she said in a voice of real distress. "I think it's dreadful to tell stories, and to keep on saying they're true when you know they're not. It wouldn't have mattered if you had explained it was a sort of fairy story like what Cousin Magdalen told us the other day, for of course that wasn't true either, only in a way it was."

"And Hoodie didn't usplain a bit, not one bit," said Duke virtuously. "Her keeped on saying it were as true as true."

"And we is too little to under'tand, isn't we?" put in Hec. "If Hoodie had toldened us she was in fun——"

"But I wasn't in fun, you ugly, naughty, ugly boy," retorted Hoodie, by this time most evidently losing her temper. "And if peoples 'zinks so much about trues, they shouldn't vant me to say what isn't true about being in fun when I wasn't in fun. The moon does——"

A choky sound was now heard, caused by Maudie's putting her hand over her sister's mouth.

"Hoodie, you're not to say that again," she exclaimed, no doubt with the best intention, but with an unfortunate result. Hoodie turned upon her like a little wild cat, and was in the act of slapping her vigorously when Miss King hurried into the room.

"Hoodie!" she said reproachfully.

Hoodie looked up with a mixture of shame and defiance.

"Oh, Hoodie, I am so sorry. I thought you had quite left off everything like that," said her cousin.

One or two big tears crept slowly out of the corners of Hoodie's eyes.

"They shouldn't say I was telling untrue things," she muttered. "'Tisn't my fault."

"Oh! Miss Hoodie," said Martin, injudiciously, "how can you say so? I'm sure, Miss," she went on, turning to Magdalen, "no one said a word to put her out. She was telling fairy stories like, to Master Duke and Master Hec, and they began asking her to explain and she would say it was quite true, not fairy stories at all. And Miss Maudie just tried to show her she shouldn't say that, and then you see, Miss, she flew into a temper."

"What were the stories about, Hoodie?" inquired Miss King, kindly.

Hoodie vouchsafed not a word in reply.

Magdalen glanced at the others.

"I'll tell," said Duke. "They was about things up in the sky, you know."

"Angels, do you mean?" said Miss King.

"Oh no, not angels," said Maudie. "It was about the stars and the moon. Hoodie has a fancy——"

"It isn't a fancy," put in Hoodie fiercely.

"Hoodie says," continued Maudie calmly, "that the moon and the stars and all of the things up in the sky, know each other, and talk to each other, and that she has heard them. The moon takes care of the stars, she says, and early in the morning when it is time for them all to go away the moon calls to them. I mean Hoodie says she does."

"'Cos she does," replied Hoodie, before any one else had time to speak. "She calls to them and they all come round her together, and then they all go away like a flash—so quick, and it is so bright."

Her funny eyes gleamed up into Magdalen's face. In the interest of what she was telling she forgot her temper.

"Was it that that you saw?" asked Magdalen, gravely. "The flash of their going, I mean?"

"Yes," said Hoodie, "I've seen it lots of times, and I try to keep awake on purpose. It passes—the flash, I mean—it passes by the little window near my head. The little window for seeing up into the sky, you know."

Magdalen nodded her head.

"I know," she said, "I had a window like that in my room when I was a little girl, and I was very fond of it. But I don't think I ever saw the moon and the stars saying good night, or good morning—which is it? And are none of the little stars ever left behind?"

The whole of Hoodie's face lighted up with a smile, but the rest of the faces round Miss King looked grave and rather puzzled. Was she really going to encourage Hoodie in her fancies—thought Maudie and Martin?

"I don't 'zink so," said Hoodie, "but I'll look the next time."

"Cousin Magdalen," whispered Maudie, gently pulling her godmother's dress, "it isn't true. You don't want Duke and Hec to think it is."

"I don't think it would matter much if they did," replied Magdalen in the same tone. "Thinking little fancies like that true would do them far less harm than thinking their sister was telling falsehoods. But I will try to explain to Hoodie that perhaps it is better not to say any more about it to the little boys. Only, Maudie dear, I think you are old enough to understand better that Hoodie was not meaning to tell untruths."

"She said she heard the moon and the stars talking," remonstrated Maudie.

"Well—what if she did? Many a time when I was a little girl I have thought I heard the wind say real words when I was lying awake in my little bed. Of course I know better now, but so will Hoodie, and if these fancies please her and keep her content and happy, why not leave her them?"

"Martin doesn't think so," said Maudie, rather mortified that her efforts to bring Hoodie to a sense of her wrong-doings were so little appreciated.

"Miss Maudie, dear!" exclaimed Martin, "I never said so, I'm sure. I don't think I rightly understood what it was all about. I'm sure I don't want to be sharp on any of you for fancies that do no one any harm. I had plenty of them myself when I was little."

"You see, Maudie, Martin does understand," said Miss King. "I'll try and explain about it better to you afterwards, but just now I really must hurry down to breakfast."

She was turning away when a clamour of little voices stopped her.

"Won't you come back after breakfast, Cousin Magdalen?"

"Oh, do tum back."

"It's such a wet day and we've nothing to do, 'cause it's Saturday, and Saturday's a holiday."

"Do you want me to come and give you lessons then?" said Magdalen, mischievously.

Dead silence—broken at last by Duke.

"Couldn't you tum and tell us more stories?"

Magdalen shook her head.

"I haven't got any ready. Truly I haven't," she said. "It takes me a long time to think of them, always. But I'll tell you what we might do. I'll come up after breakfast with my work and you might all tell me stories. That would amuse everybody. Each of you try to think of one, but you mustn't tell each other what it is."

Hoodie's face lighted up, but Maudie looked rather lugubrious.

"I can't think of one," she said.

"Oh yes you can, if you try," said Magdalen, cheerfully.

"Must it be all out of my own head?"

Miss King hesitated.

"No, if you can remember one that you've read that the others don't know, that would do."

Maudie looked relieved.

"I don't need to remember one," said Hoodie. "I know such heaps. My head's all spinning full of them."

"So's mine," said Duke, jumping about and clapping his hands.

"And mine too," said Hec. "Kite 'pinning full."

"What nonsense," said Hoodie. "You don't know stories. It's only me that does."

"Hush, hush," said Miss King. "My plan won't be nice at all if it makes you quarrel. Now I must run down."

The children were very quiet through breakfast time. Every now and then the little boys leant over across their bowls of bread and milk to whisper to each other.

"Wouldn't that be lovely?" or

"That'd be a vezy pitty story," till called to order by Martin, who told them that spilling their breakfast over the table would not be at all a good beginning to the stories.

"'Twouldn't matter," remarked Hoodie, philosophically. "The cloth isn't clean; it's Saturday, you know, Martin."

"Saturday or no Saturday," replied Martin, "it isn't pretty for little ladies and gentlemen to spill their food on the table. And it gets them in the habit of it for when they get big and have their breakfasts and dinners down-stairs."

"Doesn't big people never spill things on the cloth?" inquired Hec, solemnly.

"Mr. Fielding does," said Hoodie. "One day when he was here at luncheon, he was helping Mamma to wine, and he poured all down the outside of her glass. I think he's dedfully ugly. I wouldn't like ever to be a big people if I was to be like him."

"Miss Hoodie," remonstrated Martin, hardly approving of the turn the conversation was taking, "do get on with your breakfast, and you'd better be thinking about your stories than talking about things you don't understand."

Hoodie glanced at Martin with considerable contempt.

"I'd like to make a story about Beauty and the Beast," she said. "I know who'd be the beast, but you shouldn't be Beauty, Martin."

"Shouldn't I, Miss Hoodie?" said Martin, good-naturedly. "Miss King would make a nice Beauty, to my mind."

Almost as she spoke the door opened, and Cousin Magdalen re-appeared.

"Children," she said, "your mother says we may have the fire lighted in the billiard-room because it is such a chilly day, so I am going to take my work there and you may all come. Martin will be glad to get rid of you, because I know Saturday's a busy morning for her always."

The news was received with great satisfaction, and before the end of another half-hour the four children were all under their cousin's charge in the billiard-room, for an hour or two, greatly to Martin's relief.

"What pretty work you are doing, Cousin Magdalen," said Maudie, stroking admiringly the large canvas stretched on a frame at which Miss King was working.

"I am glad you think it's pretty," said her godmother. "I think it is very pretty; but the colours are not very bright, and children generally like very bright colours. The pattern is copied from a very old piece of tapestry."

"What's tapestry?" said Hoodie.

"Old-fashioned work that used to be made long ago," said Miss King. "It was more like great pictures than anything else, and such quantities of it were made that whole walls were covered with it. Once when I was a very little girl I slept in a room all covered with tapestry, and in the middle of the night——"

She stopped suddenly.

"What?" said Hoodie eagerly, peering up into her face. "What came in the middle of night?"

"I didn't say anything came," said Cousin Magdalen, laughing. "I stopped because I thought I could make it into a little story and tell it to you afterwards. But we are forgetting all about your stories. Who is going to begin? Eldest first—you, Maudie, I suppose."

Maudie looked rather melancholy.

"I can't tell nice stories," she said. "I've been thinking such a time, and I can't think of anything except something very stupid."

"Well, let us hear it, any way," said her cousin, "and then we can say if it is stupid or not."

"It was a story I read," said Maudie, "or else some one told it me. I can't remember which it was. It was about a very poor little girl—she was dreadfully poor, just as poor as you could fancy."

"No clothes—hadn't she no clothes?" asked Duke.

"And nucken to eat?" added Hec.

"Very little," said Maudie. "Of course she had some, or else she would have died. She hadn't any father or mother, only an old grandmother, who wasn't very kind to her. At least she was very old and deaf and all that, and perhaps that made her cross. And the little girl used to go messages for a shop—that was how she got a little money. It was a baker's shop near where they lived, and it was rather a grand shop—only they kept this little girl to go messages, not to the grand people that came there, you know, but to the people that bought the bread when it wasn't so new—and currant cakes that were rather stale—like that, you know. And on Sunday mornings she had the most to do, because they used to send a great lot of bread very early to a room where a kind lady had breakfast for a great many poor people—for a treat because it was Sunday. They used to have lots of bread and butter and hot coffee—very nice. And Lizzie, that was the little girl's name, liked Sunday mornings and going with the bread to that place, because it all looked so cheerful and comfortable, and the smell of the hot coffee was so good."

"Didn't they never give her none?" asked Duke.

"No, I don't think so. At least not before what I'm going to tell you. You should wait till I tell you. Well, one Sunday in winter, it was a dreadfully cold day; snowing and raining, and all mixed together, and wind too, I think—dreadful cold wind. And Lizzie nearly cried as she was going along to that place. She had such dreadfully sore chilblains on her feet and on her hands too. She got to the place and emptied the basket, and she was just coming away at the door, when a carriage came up and she stopped a minute to see the people get out. The first was the lady who gave the breakfast, Lizzie had seen her before, for she came sometimes—not every Sunday, but just sometimes—to see that the breakfast was all nice for her poor people. But this day, after she got out, she turned back to lift a little boy out of the carriage. And Lizzie had never seen this little boy before, because this was the first time he had ever come. His mother had brought him with her for a great treat. He was a very pretty little boy and his name was Arthur, and he was about six, I think it said in the story. The lady went into the room quick without noticing Lizzie, as she was in a hurry not to be late for the poor people, but Arthur stayed behind a minute and stared at Lizzie. She was so very cold, you know, she did look miserable, and then she had cried a little on the way, so her eyes were red.

"Arthur went close up to her, staring all the time. Lizzie didn't mind. She stared at him too. He was so pretty and he had such pretty clothes on. When he got close to her, he looked sharp up into her face and said—

"'What is you crying for?'

"Lizzie had forgotten she had been crying, so she said, 'I'm not crying. I'm only very cold.'

"'Poor little girl,' said Arthur, 'I'll ask Mamma to give you a penny.'

"He ran after his mother, who was wondering what he was staying for, and in a minute he came back again and put a little paper packet into Lizzie's hand.

"'That's all mother's got in her penny purse,' he said, and he ran off again before Lizzie had time to thank him.

"She was going to open the packet and see how much there was, but just then one of the men who helped to put out the breakfast came past and told her not to loiter about. So she took up her basket and ran away, for people often spoke crossly to her, and she was easily frightened. All the way home she kept thinking about her pennies and what she would buy with them, but she didn't open the packet, because the way she had to go there were so many rude boys about that she was afraid they might snatch it from her. And when she got to the shop where she had to take the basket to, the baker sent her another message, so it wasn't till much later than usual that she got home. And all this time she had never opened the packet, at least it said so in the story, though I think I would have peeped at it before—wouldn't you, Cousin Magdalen?"

"I'm not sure," said Magdalen. "I think if one has something nice it is sometimes rather tempting to keep it for a while without looking it all over. It is something to look forward to."

"Yes," said Hoodie. "I'd have keepened it for alvays wrapped up, and then I could have alvays thought perhaps it was a fairy thing like."

"You silly girl," said Maudie, "you're always fancying about fairies."

"Maudie, dear" said Magdalen, "do try not to say things like that. You are telling the story so nicely and we're all so happy. Please don't spoil it by saying unkind little things."

"I didn't mean to be unkind," said Maudie penitently.

"P'ease do on with the story," said the little boys.

"Well, when at last she got home, she opened the little packet," continued Maudie, "and what do you think she saw? Instead of two pennies and a halfpenny perhaps, or something like that, there were—let me see—yes, that was it—there were a gold pound, a half-a-crown, and a shilling. Just fancy! Lizzie was so surprised that she didn't know what she felt—she looked at them and looked at them, and turned them in her hand, and then all at once it came into her mind that of course the lady had given her them by mistake, and that she should take them back to her. And she jumped up very quick and said to her grandmother there was another message she had to go, and without thinking anything about whether the lady would still be there or not, off she ran back again to the place where the poor people had their breakfast. She ran as hard as she could, but of course when she got there it was too late—the breakfast was done long ago, and all the people away and the doors locked, and there was no one about at all to tell her where she could find the lady. And Lizzie was so unhappy that she sat down on a step and cried. You see it was such a disappointment, for she couldn't tell how much the lady had meant to give her, and so she didn't like to take any. Besides, she felt that it would be better to give the packet back just as it was, only she had so wanted the pennies, for she never had any. The baker's wife always paid her grandmother, not Lizzie herself, for Lizzie's going messages.

"And after she had cried a good while she got up and went home. But just as she got near the baker's shop she thought she might ask there if they knew the lady's name, so she went in to ask. There was no one in the shop but the young woman who helped—the others had gone to church."

"How was it the shop was open, then, as it was Sunday?" asked Magdalen.

"It wasn't open, only there was a sort of door in the shutters that Lizzie always went in and out by on Sunday mornings. I know that, because there was a picture of it—I remember now where I read the story—it was in a big picture magazine when I was quite a little girl," said Maudie. "And this young woman was tidying the shop a little, and just going to shut it altogether when Lizzie went in. She was a good-natured young woman and she looked in the money books for the lady's name, but it wasn't in—only the name of the man the room belonged to where the breakfast was—and then she asked Lizzie what she wanted to know for, and Lizzie told her. The young woman told her she was very silly to think of giving it back. She said to her that certainly the lady had given it her, it wasn't even as if she had found it. And Lizzie could not say that was not true, and she felt so puzzled at first that she didn't know what to say. The young woman offered to change it for her so that nobody could wonder how she had got a gold piece, but Lizzie said she would think about it first. And then she went home, and thought, and thought, till at last it came quite plain into her mind that though it was true that the lady had given it her, still it was more true that she hadn't meant to give it her. And then she didn't feel so unhappy."

Maudie stopped for a moment. It had turned out quite a long story, and she was a little tired.

"And what did she do then? Quick, Maudie," said Hoodie.

"What did her do? Kick, kick, Maudie," said the little boys.

"Hush, children, don't hurry Maudie so. Let her rest a minute," said Cousin Magdalen; "she must be a little tired with speaking so long."

"No, I'm not tired now," said Maudie, "only I want to remember to tell it quite right, and I couldn't quite remember what came next. Any way, she couldn't do anything more that day. But she wrapped up the money again quite safe, and put it in another paper, outside the one it had, and—oh, yes, that was it, she settled that she would wait till the next Sunday, and then stand at the door of the breakfast place to see the lady again. She didn't like telling any more people for fear they might take the money away from her, or something like that, and she couldn't think of anything better to do. Well, the next Sunday morning she took the bread as usual, and then she waited at the door for the lady to come, but she never came. Lizzie waited and waited, but she never came, and all the people had gone in and the breakfast was nearly done, but the lady never came. And at last she went and asked somebody if the lady wasn't coming—the woman who poured out the coffee, I think it was—and she told her no, the lady wasn't coming that day, and wouldn't come again for a great long while, because she was going away somewhere a good way off. Lizzie was so sorry, she began to cry, so the woman asked her what was the matter, and she told her, and the woman was so pleased with her for being so honest, that she gave her the lady's address and told her to go at once to the house, for perhaps she wouldn't have gone yet. But it was only another disappointment, for when poor Lizzie got there she found it was all shut up; they had gone away the day before."

"Poor Lizzie," said Magdalen, "what did she do then?"

"Poor Lizzie," said Hec and Duke, "and didn't she never get the real pennies?"

"It wasn't pennies she wanted so much," said Hoodie, "she wanted the lady to know how good she was."

"She wanted to be good, don't you think that would be a nicer way to say it, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen. "You see, being so poor, it must sometimes have been very difficult for her not to use any of the money."

"Yes," said Maudie, "it said that in the story. Well, any way she was good. She sewed the money up in a little bag and put it in a safe place, and tried not to think about it. And all that winter she kept it and never touched it, though they were very poor that winter. It was so very cold, and poor people are always poorer in very cold winters, Martin says. Often they had no fire, and Lizzie's chilblains were dreadful, for her boots didn't keep out the rain and snow a bit, and often she was very hungry too, but still she never touched the money. And at last, after a very long time, the winter began to go away and the spring began to come, and the woman who poured out the coffee told Lizzie she had heard that the lady was coming home in the spring. So Lizzie began to wait a little every Sunday morning when she had given in the bread, to see if perhaps the lady would come. She waited like that for about six Sundays, I think, till at last one Sunday just as she was thinking it was no use waiting any more, the lady wouldn't be coming, a carriage drove up to the door, the very same carriage that Lizzie had seen come there before, and—and—the lady—the real same lady, and the real same little boy, got out! And Lizzie was so pleased she didn't know what to do, for though she had only seen them once before, she had watched for them so long that they seemed like great friends to her. But though she was so pleased, she began all to tremble and at first she couldn't speak, her voice went all away. She just pulled the lady's dress and looked up in her face but she couldn't speak. At first the lady didn't understand, though she was a kind lady she didn't like a dirty-looking little girl pulling her dress, and she looked at her a little sharply. But the little boy understood, and he called out—

"'Oh, mamma, mamma, it's the same little girl. Don't you remember? I wonder if she's been waiting here ever since.'

"That was rather silly of him; of course she couldn't have been there ever since, but he was quite a little boy. And then the lady looked kindly at Lizzie and Lizzie's voice came back, and she said—

"'Oh, ma'am, this is the money you gave me by mistake. I've kept it all this time,' and she put the little packet into the lady's hand. And then something came over her; the feeling of having waited so long, I suppose, and she burst into tears. And what do you think the lady did? She was so sorry for poor Lizzie, and so pleased with her, that she actually kissed her!"

"Aczhally kissed her," repeated Hoodie, Hec, and Duke. "That dirty girl!"

"No," said Maudie, "she wasn't dirty. She was poor, but she wasn't dirty."

"You said she was once," said Hoodie.

"Well, I didn't mean dirty, really. I meant she looked so, because her clothes were so old. And any way the lady did kiss her, and then she was so kind. She had never thought of having given Lizzie the money. It was some she had put up to pay a bill with, and she had meant to put it in her other purse, and when she couldn't find it, she thought she had lost it somehow. And though she was sorry, of course it didn't matter so very much. And she said if she had known she would have written a letter to the coffee woman to tell her to spend it for warm clothes for poor Lizzie. But after all, it all turned out nice. The lady was very kind to Lizzie after that, and paid for her going to school and being taught all nice things, so that when she got a little bigger she was a very nice servant. I think it said in the story that she learnt to be a nurse, and she was a very kind nurse always."

"Like Martin?" said Duke.

"Yes," said Maudie.

"Perhaps she was even kinder than Martin," suggested Hec. "Perhaps she was awful kind."

"Nobody could be kinder than Martin, except when we're naughty," said Duke, reproachfully.

"Don't you think we should all thank Maudie for telling us such a nice story?" said Magdalen. "I thank her very much."

"So do I," said Duke.

"And me," said Hec.

"And me," said Hoodie, "only I want to tell a story too."

"We're all ready to listen," said Miss King. "But it mustn't be very long. I've to go out with your mother this afternoon, so I must write some letters before luncheon. And Hec and Duke have stories to tell, too, haven't they? So fire away, Hoodie."



CHAPTER VIII.

HOODIE'S FOUNDLING.

"I almost think a robin To a fairy I prefer."

Hoodie gazed round her condescendingly.

"I've such lots of stories in my head," she said. "They knock against each other. Well—I think I'll tell you a story of two little goblins. They lived in a star, and they were just e'zackly like each other. As like as two pins, or as like as a pin is to itself if you look at it in the looking-glass. They lived all alone in the star, and all day they stayed asleep like we do all night, but all night they were awake like we are all day, 'cos you see all day the star was shut up—like a shop, you know, only with curtains all round—all the stars are shut up like that all day, you know, and at night the moon wakes up and sends round to draw the curtains, and all the stars come out, rubbing their eyes."

"They hasn't any hands—how can they rub their eyes?" objected Duke.

"You silly boy," said Hoodie, very sharply. "How do you know? You've never been in the stars."

"But you hasn't neither," he persisted.

"Never mind. I know, and if I didn't I couldn't tell you. That's how people can tell stories. Well, the stars come out, lots and lots of them, and go running about all night, and then in the morning the moon sends round to draw all the curtains again and they're all to go to sleep."

"But some nights the moon isn't there and the stars are there without her. How is that, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen, rather mischievously.

"You think so 'cos you don't know; but I do," said Hoodie, nodding her head sagaciously. "The moon's alvays there, only sometimes she has a cold, and then she wraps up her white face in a shawl and you can't see her."

There was a twinkle of fun in Hoodie's green eyes as she said this that showed her cousin that her little teasing was understood.

"Oh, indeed," she said, gravely, "I did not know. Thank you, Hoodie, for explaining to me."

"And so," continued Hoodie, "the goblins never saw anything of day things, but they saw very funny things at night when they went sailing about on the star."

"Stars don't go sailing about," objected Maudie. "They're always quite still."

"They're not then," said Hoodie: "that shows you don't listen, Maudie. I heard Papa say one day that the stars are going as fast as fast, only they go so fast that we can't see them."

"What nonsense! Isn't it nonsense, Cousin Magdalen?" pleaded Maudie.

"No," said Miss King. "It is true they are moving faster than we can even fancy, but the reason we can't see them moving isn't exactly what Hoodie says."

"What is it then?"

"I can't explain it to you just now—it would not be very easy for you to understand, and if I explained it, it would take too much time and we shouldn't hear the rest of Hoodie's story. I think we should let poor Hoodie go on with her story now without interrupting her any more."

Hoodie required no further bidding.

"Well," she said, "all night long the goblins went sailing about in the star, and sometimes they saw very funny things. They were up so high that they could look down and see everything, you know. They could see the big ponds up in the sky where the rain is made, and the awful big windmills up there where the wind blows from, and the cannons that bum the thunder down."

"Could they——?" began Duke, timidly, and then he stopped.

"Could they what?" said Hoodie, rather snappishly. "If peoples interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their interrumpting, and not stop in the middle."



"I didn't like to say it," said Duke. "I only wanted to know if they could see right into the middle of the sky where the angels are."

"No," said Hoodie, decidedly, "they couldn't. They was goblins; they wasn't angels at all, so they didn't want to see angels. It isn't that kind of story, Duke—I'll tell you one like that another day—Sunday perhaps. Now I want to go on about the goblins. What they liked best was to peep into the windows and look at people, and play them tricks sometimes. They was awful fond of playing tricks; goblins always is. But sometimes they gets tricks played them, and that's what my story's about. There was a window up in a house that they wanted to look in at, but they couldn't ever get quite high enough up, 'cos the window was at the top of the house, you see. It was the window of a witch, but the goblins didn't know that. She was a witch that lived all alone, and there wasn't anything she cared for except playing tricks, she was always playing tricks. She knowed the goblins wanted to peep in at her window, she knowed everything, 'cos that's what it means to be a witch, that and playing tricks. And she set herself to play a trick on the goblins—a reg'lar good trick, 'cos she didn't see what they was always wanting to peep in at her window for."

Hoodie paused for a moment to take breath.

"I wonder what the trick was," whispered Duke and Hec under their breath, evidently very much impressed.

"Yes, you may wonder," said Hoodie, majestically. "You'd never guess. Not in a milliond guesses. Well then, one night when the goblins was twisting and turning theirselves about on the very edge of the star, trying to peep in at the window, all of a suddent the witch's house turned right round, so that the window came to the side instead of up at the top, and one of the goblins gave a great jump and screamed out to the other—

"'I say, brother, we can see into the witch's house now.'"

"But you said the goblins didn't know it was a witch that lived there," said Maudie.

"Well, they didn't know at first, but when they saw the house turned round, of course they knowed it must be a witch that lived there. Nobody else could turn their house round," said Hoodie, composedly. "And so they both screamed, they were so pleased, and all the time the witch was settling about the trick she'd play them. Now I must tell you what the trick was. The witch wasn't all a bad witch—she was a little good too, and there was a little girl lived in the room next to her that liked her very much, 'cos the witch was very good to her and used to tell her funny stories. And that was why the witch didn't want the goblins to peep into her room, 'cos she thought perhaps they'd steal away the little girl for a trick, for she was very often in the witch's room, and goblins is awful fond of stealing children and taking them up into the stars to live with them, so she—the witch, I mean—was sure that they'd try to steal her little girl once they saw her. So when the little girl came to see her that night, she made her go to bed in a nice little bed she'd made for her, and told her she was to be quite still, for perhaps a' ogre was coming to see her. The little girl was a little frightened but not very, for she knowed the witch would take care of her even though she knowed the witch had got very funny friends, ogres you know, and black cats that was really fairies, and all creatures like that—it's rather a dedful story, isn't it?—but you needn't be frightened, Duke and Hec, it'll come unfrightening soon. And so the little girl got into the little bed and cuddled herself up just like the witch had told her. And the goblins came sailing and sailing up on the star; they was working it like, to make it go quick you know, like a boat with men oaring it you know, and they was oaring and oaring so hard, they was as hot as hot. And at last they got the star right up to the edge of the window, but they made a little noise and the little girl was startled and jumped up in bed, just what the witch had not wanted her to do, and the goblins when they saw her forgot all about the witch and called out, 'Oh what a nice little girl to steal,' and they were just going to jump in and catch her up and steal her, when—what do you think?—the witch jumped out of the corner where she had been watching them and caught hold of them fast, one in each hand, and put them—where do you think?—one into each of the little girl's eyes! And they couldn't ever get out again, for there's a fine little glass lid in people's eyes that nobody could open but a witch, and she shut it down on them tight, and there they were; they couldn't do anything but peep out, and there they were for always, peeping out."

"But didn't it hurt the little girl?" asked Maudie. "It would hurt dreadfully to have the least thing put in your eye."

"Oh no," said Hoodie, "it didn't hurt her—not a bit—she just thought a fly had tickled her eyes, and she winkled them, and the witch said to her, 'You may come out of bed now, my dear. The ogre won't be coming to-night.' And so the little girl got out of bed, and when she came up to the witch, the witch looked at her and laughed, and the little girl couldn't think what she was laughing at, and she never knowed about the goblins being in her eyes till one day when her little brother was playing with her, he peeped in her face and said, 'I see two goblins in your eyes.'"

"That was me," exclaimed Duke. "It was one day I looked in Hoodie's eyes and I saw two goblings in 'zem, I did. Hoodie's made the story about me."

"I hasn't," said Hoodie, indignantly. "I've got stories enough without making them about silly little boys like you. Of course you saw the goblins in mine eyes—there's goblins in every little girl's eyes ever since the witch put them into her little girl's. It's comed to be the fashion, and now you know how it was, and that's the end of the story."

"Thank you for telling it, Hoodie," said Magdalen. "We're all very much obliged to you, and another day I hope you'll tell us some more. Now Duke and Hec, are your stories ready?"

Hec looked exceedingly solemn.

"I only know one," he said; "Duke knows lots."

"Well, which of you is going to begin?"

"Hec," said Duke.

"Duke," said Hec.

"Mine isn't ready," said Duke. "Hec, you begin. If you only know one it must be always ready."

"Mine's only about a little dog," began Hec, modestly. "It was a little dog that had only three legs."

"Only three legs!" exclaimed Magdalen. "My dear Hec, are you sure you haven't made a mistake?"

"Sure," said Hec, "the housemaid had broke its leg off a long time ago, when she was dusting the mantelpiece, so the Mamma gave it to the little boy because it was spoilt for the drawing-room. And the little boy was very fond of it—it was made of hard stuff, you know, all white and shiny, and it had blue eyes. It was very pretty. Martin told me the story. She knowed the little boy. And one day the little boy lostened the little dog. He always had it on the nursery table at breakfast and dinner and tea; and he used to 'atend to feed it. Sometimes he put it on the edge of his plate, and sometimes if he 'atended it was 'firsty he put it on the edge of the milk-jug. And one day he lostened it. It was there at the beginning of tea he was sure, but at the end it wasn't there. And he looked and looked and looked but he couldn't find it; and the nurse looked and looked, but she couldn't find it. So the little boy cried. He cried dedfully, but he couldn't find it. And the nurse was vexed 'cos he wouldn't stop crying. She wasn't as kind as Martin. So he had to go to bed crying, and the next morning when he got up he cried again for his little doggie. And his Mamma said she would buy him another, but he didn't care for that. He said he wouldn't like any but his own dear doggie with only three legs. Well, that day they had rice-pudding for dinner. The little boy kept crying even when he was eating his dinner, and they zeally didn't know what to do with him. But what do you think came? He put some pudding in his mouf, and there was some'sing hard. He thought it was a stone, and he feeled to see what it was, and it was his little dog that had been cooked in the pudding—aczhally cooked in the pudding."

"Like Tom Thumb," said Magdalen. "Yes, it was very funny. But it must have been a very little dog, Hec, to go in the little boy's mouth?"

"Oh yes, littler than Martin's fimble. She showed me," said Hec. "It was quite a little wee doggie. And Martin said it had got into the pudding, 'cos it had been on the edge of the milk-jug and had felled in, and so it went down to the kitchen in the milk-jug, and the cook had put the milk that was over, to make a pudding. The little boy was so dedfully glad, you can't fancy. He never lostened the little dog again, Martin said, and he said he would keep it till he was a big man. That's all my story."

"Thank you, dear. You've told it very nicely. Hasn't he?" said Miss King.

"Very nicely," said Maudie.

But Hoodie tossed her head rather contemptuously.

"I like stories that peoples make out of their own heads," she said.

"So do I," said Duke. "I've been making mine while Hec was telling his; I didn't need to listen, for I've heard the story of the little dog before. Now, I'll tell you mine. Onst there was a ogre that lived in a castle, and the castle was on the top of a big, big hill—such a awfully big hill that nobody could ever get up it—not the biggest person that ever was made couldn't get up it."

"How did the ogre get up it then?" said Hoodie.

"He didn't. He'd always been there and he had a' ogre's wife to cook his dinner, and he had a—a—oh yes, I know, he had a awful big billiard-table, and he used to use little boys' heads for the balls," continued Duke, his eyes wandering round the room for inspiration as he proceeded. "And," he went on, as he caught sight of a large mirror at the end of the room, "he was so big he couldn't get any plates big enough for him to eat off, so he used to have big looking-glasses for plates, and—and—he had a coal-box for a salt-cellar, and when he had a' egg for breakfast he had the shovel for a' egg spoon, and—and—the white muslin curtains was his pocket-hankerwitches, and——" here Duke came to a dead stop, but another gaze round the room provided fresh material, "and," he proceeded energetically, "the Venetian blind sticks was his matches, and his ogre's wife used to wash his hankerwitches in a lake, and that was his basin; and for soup she used a—oh I don't know what she had for soup—never mind that. But she had beautiful big earrings," his eyes at this moment happening to catch sight of Magdalen's side-face, "beautiful big earrings made of two shiny glass and goldy things for candles, like that one hanging up there, and——"

"You're just making a rubbish story, Duke," said Maudie. "You just put in whatever you see. I don't call that a proper story at all. Is it, Cousin Magdalen?"

"You're very unkind, Maudie," said Duke, dolefully, before Magdalen had time to reply. "It isn't a rubbish story. I was just going to tell you about one day when the ogre was very hungry——"

"Well, what did he do?"

"Well," repeated Duke, somewhat mollified, "one day when the ogre was very hungry, he couldn't find nothing to eat, and he said to his wife, 'Ogre's wife, I'll eat you, if you don't get me somefin to eat too-dreckly.' And his ogre's wife cried, and she said she'd go to the green-baker's and see if she couldn't get somefin for he to eat."

"Go to the where, Duke?" said Magdalen, looking up from her work.

"To the green-baker's, that's where they sell apples and pears and p'ums," said Duke.

Maudie burst out laughing.

"He means the green-grocer's," she said. "Oh, Duke, how funny you are!"

"And how could the ogre's wife go and buy him things at shops if they were up on the top of a hill so big that nobody could get down?"

"Oh," replied Duke, "'cos there was andnother hill just a very little way off that they could get on quite easily, like steps, and there was lots of shops on the nother hill—all kinds."

"All shops for ogreses?" inquired Hec timidly.

"No, in course not. Shops for proper people. But when the ogre's wife went to buy somefin for him to eat she had to buy a whole shop-ful—lots and lots—but I zink I've toldened you enough for to-day. I must make some more up first."

"Very well, dear, perhaps it will be better, and thank you for what you've told us to-day," said Cousin Magdalen, beginning to fold up her work. "I must try now to get my letter written before luncheon. I hope it's not going to rain all the afternoon."

One or two of the children ran to the window, as she spoke, to examine the state of the clouds. Suddenly, as they stood there, something, a small dark thing, was seen to fall or flutter to the ground, a short way off.

"What was that?" said Hoodie, whose quick eyes always saw things before any one else.

"What?" said Duke deliberately.

"Didn't you see something fall, stupid boy?" said Hoodie politely.

"Yes, I saw somefin, but perhaps it was only a leaf."

"But perhaps it wasn't only a leaf," said Hoodie impatiently. "There now, look there, don't you see it's moving? Over there by the little fat tree with the spiky leaves—oh, oh, oh! It's a bird—a poor little innicent bird—that's felled out of a netst," screamed Hoodie, in tremendous excitement, which always upset her English. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, quick, quick! open the door, do, do, and let Hoodie go and fetcht the poor little bird."

She danced about with impatience, her eyes streaming—for in curious contrast with Hoodie's scant affection for her fellow human beings was her immense tenderness and devotion towards dumb animals of every kind. She "would not hurt a fly" would have very poorly described her feelings. She had been known to nurse a maimed bluebottle for a week, getting up in the night to give it fresh crumbs of sugar—she had cried for two days and a half after accidentally seeing the last struggles of a chicken which the cook had killed for dinner, and had she clearly understood that the mutton-chops she was so fond of were really the ribs of "a poor sweet little sheep," I am quite sure mutton-chops would in future have been cooked in vain for Hoodie.

Cousin Magdalen had not hitherto seen much of this side of the little girl's character, and she looked at her with some surprise, not sure if there was a mixture of temper in all these dancings-about and callings-out. But she came quickly across the room all the same, to the window, or glass door rather, where all the children were now assembled—

"What is it?" she said. "Hoodie, dear, why do you get into such a fuss?"

"'Cos I want to go out and pick up the little bird, poor little innicent thing, that's felled out of the tree. Oh, Maudie's godmother, do open the door—quick, quick, and let me out," said Hoodie, still dancing about. "The bird will be lying there thinking that nobody cares."

Magdalen quietly unfastened the door, which was bolted high up, out of the children's reach, and led the way out into the shrubbery. The rain had left off, but it had warmed rather than chilled the spring morning air, and a delicious scent of freshened earth met the little party as they came out of the billiard-room. Magdalen would have liked to stand still for a moment and look about her, and enjoy the sweet air, and listen to the pretty soft garden sounds—the crisp crunch of the heavy roller which the men were drawing over the damp gravel of the drive, the voices, further off, of the school children running home, for it was twelve o'clock,—prettier still, the faint cackles from the poultry-yard, and the twitterings, gradually waking up, of the birds, whose spirits had been depressed by the heavy rain—but where Hoodie was, such lingerings by the way must never be thought of! The child darted out the moment the door was opened, and rushed across the grass-plot just in front—heedless of the soaking to which this exposed her feet and legs up to her knees, for the grass hereabouts was allowed to grow wild, and in the corners near the wall was mixed with coarse ferns and bracken, through all of which Hoodie determinedly ploughed her way.

"Oh dear," exclaimed poor Magdalen, "how silly I was to open the door! Just look at Hoodie, Maudie. She will be perfectly drenched. Martin really will have reason to think I am not fit to take care of you."

"And she has her best house shoes on," said Maudie, lugubriously. "Martin put them on when she made us neat to come down to you, Cousin Magdalen, because one of her common ones wanted stitching up at the side, and Martin always says mirocco shoes never are the same again after they get soaked."

"I must go after her, at all costs," said Magdalen, lifting up her long skirts as well as she could to prevent their getting any more than their share of drenching. "Now, Duke and Hec, stay where you are, whatever you do, or better still, go back into the billiard-room. I trust you, Maudie, to take care of them. I am afraid their feet are wet already."

"Yes, and Hec gets croup when his feet are wet," replied Maudie, consolingly. "Never mind though, Cousin Magdalen. I'll take him in, and take off his shoes and stockings by the fire and dry them."

"Thank you, dear," said Magdalen, at the bottom of her heart, though she would not have said so to the children, considerably relieved that Martin need not be summoned to the rescue. "She would really feel that I could not be trusted with them, and it would be such a pity, just when I wanted so much to be of use and to help Beatrice." (Beatrice was the name of the children's mother.)

It was no very pleasant business following Hoodie across the long, soppy grass; even if one were quite careless of the effect on one's clothes, the soaking of one's feet and ankles was disagreeable, to say the least. But Magdalen faced it bravely, and found herself at last beside her troublesome charge. Hoodie, not content with having thoroughly drenched her fat little legs and feet in their pretty clothing of open-work socks and "mirocco" slippers, was actually down on her knees in the wet grass, tenderly stroking the ruffled feathers of the little bird whose misfortunes had aroused her sympathy, while tears poured down her face, and her voice was broken with sobs as, looking up, she saw her cousin, and cried out—

"Oh, Maudie's godmother, him's dead. The innicent little sweet. I do believe him's dead, or just going to deaden. I daren't lift him up. Oh dear, oh dear!"

It was impossible to scold her—her grief was so real; so with one rueful glance at the destruction already wrought on the nice blue merino frock and frilled muslin pinafore, Magdalen set to work to soothe and comfort the excited little girl.

"Hush, Hoodie dear," she said. "You really mustn't cry so, even if the poor little bird is dead."

"But Hoodie can't help it, for you know, Maudie's godmother, little birds doesn't go to heaven when they's dead—not like good people, you know, so I can't help crying."

To this reason for Hoodie's tears Magdalen thought it best to make no reply, but she stooped down and carefully lifted up the little bird. It was a pretty little creature—its wings and breast marked with delicately shaded colour, though just now the feathers were ruffled and disordered—a very young bird; and Magdalen's country-bred eyes recognized it at once as a greenfinch.